


Sometimes We Feel Alive

by windychimes



Category: Tales of the Abyss
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-16
Updated: 2011-08-16
Packaged: 2017-10-22 16:21:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/240030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/windychimes/pseuds/windychimes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pain is easy to share.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sometimes We Feel Alive

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vangirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vangirl/gifts).



Pain is easy to share.

It’s almost closing time and they’re the only ones left. The other soldiers left ours ago, drunken and merry, shouting slurred drinking songs. They survived today’s battle, perhaps they will survive tomorrow’s; only the Score knows their fate.

Only the Score controls it. Only the Score sends young men into battle to die, men with their whole lives ahead of them, men with wives and children, pregnant wives, wives who just gave birth and the Score rips that child away, rips the child straight from her womb—

A shot glass is pressed into his hand and the scent of scotch breaks him from his thoughts. A warm body to his back, pale hair against his shoulder; she moves with an easy grace as she sits down next to him.

“You look like you needed it,” she says, and her voice is strangely soft.

She doesn’t know what happened. But she knows that look; he was far away, angry, coiled in on himself. A snake biting its own tail.

There are already three empty shot glasses in front of him, but a fourth won’t hurt. It’s better not to drink alone.

“Thank you, Major.” Everything is easier with distance. “I appreciate the offer.”

“Legretta,” she corrects. Titles are meaningless outside the cathedral and among comrades. “Do you mind if I drink with you?”

“Of course not.” He signals to the barkeep and a shot of scotch slides down the counter and to her hand. “I enjoy your companionship.”

Sipping her drink, she looks at him in a way that can see through all his shields. “Largo.” Clear eyes flicker to the barman. “Let’s go outside.”

They finish their scotch and leave the bar, pulling on their coats as the step into the windy winter. The night air is crisp and cool and stings against their faces. Wrapping her arm around his, Legretta pulls him into the dark night. It’s late now, the kind of late he likes; the street lamps are fading, the stars are falling, all the lights of the houses are out. Their feet crunch against the snowy ground as snowflakes drift down, covering their hair and shoulders. They walk a long time in silence, passing the little houses with their darkened windows, the closed store fronts, the cooing late night birds and scurrying cats in the alley ways. There’s a lonely bench in a hidden side road, only snow and a burnt out lamppost as its companions. Largo sits first, and Legretta sits in his lap.

It’s new but familiar. Maybe it’s the scotch on his breath. Her breath. Their breath. But this is okay. He kisses her shoulder. This is okay.

“Legretta.” He loves his wife. “Legretta.” His hands slide under her skirt, up her thigh. “Legretta.” He loves his wife. “Legretta.” It’s wet and warm between her legs and his finger easily slides in.

“Legretta.”

His wife is dead, his wife is dead, he loves his wife but his wife is dead. It’s been eighteen years, it’s been eighteen years, he loves his wife but he can finally stop punishing himself.

She turns in his lap, his hand moving away, and kisses his forehead. “It’s okay.” Does Legretta have her own pain? “I’m here.” Their eyes lock and they understand, they know, not the details but the details don’t matter. The Score took something from both of them, something they can’t get back, but tonight can fill the void, if just for a little. It’s too chilly to disrobe completely but it’s not hard to slide their hands underneath each other’s coats. His hands are cold on her breasts and hers are cold on his stomach but it’s a nice contrast to their feverish bodies. Their hands slide down down down and again he easily presses a finger inside her as she undoes the bindings of his pants. He wants to take his time with her, kiss her breasts and her thighs, stroke her sides and pant against her neck. He wants to work through the pain with her, with their bodies connected, with their lips together, with their fingers intertwined.

He wants a lot of things he can’t have.

Time moves sluggish and unhurried around them. Though they can’t move too slowly, they still take their time in exploring each other’s bodies. The soft curve of her hips, the swell of her breasts; the hard muscle under her fingers, the warm expanse of his chest. Legretta is ready quickly, quicker than he expected, but maybe she needs this more than he does, and she rises off his fingers. Her skirt rides up her hips as she lowers herself, one hand gripping his shoulder as her other hand grips his cock. Slowly, slowly, she rocks herself onto him, her breath quickening as inch by inch his cock disappears inside her. Largo can’t even breathe; she’s so beautiful, so warm, it’s been so long, it’s been so long. Legretta presses herself to his chest as she adjusts and Largo loses his breath all over again. Tears sting at his eyes and he holds her close, as close as he can. He missed this, he missed the intimacy. The utter vulnerability of it all. He presses his face to her chest and inhales sharply, a little choked sob, and when he finds tears raining down above him he cries too. Looking up, their eyes meet once more, and he holds her face with both hands to kiss her deeply. It’s then she starts rocking against him and he thrusts back and their movements choppy and uneven. They don’t match up right but he doesn’t care, that’s not what’s important, that’s not what matters. What matters is holding her, having her, sharing their tears together. He hasn’t cried in eighteen years, not since his wife died, not since his daughter was taken away from him, his beautiful, beautiful daughter.

Not since there was nothing worse to cry about.

The move together for a long time, slow and steady. Eventually their bodies find a matching rhythm and their tears dry, and all that’s left is soft gasps and softer breathes. Again time is sluggish around them, standing still as they find their solace within each other. Slowly, slowly, their movements wind down and finally stop, bodies spent in pleasure and pain. For a long while they stay like that, holding each other, their hearts beating as one. Soon hints of the sun rise to the sky, pale beams crawling across the snow. With shaky legs Legretta slides from his laps and adjusts her clothing, knees trembling from cold and exhaustion. Largo stands, just as uneasily, and holds his hand out to her after he’s fixed his clothes. Together they walk back to the cathedral, unhurried as the sunbeams that stretch across the land. There’s going to be rumors about them, staying out so late, coming back so early, hand in hand. Largo’s quarters are first and the scandal will only grow if it’s found out that they shared a room, shared a bed.

Largo doesn’t mind, Legretta doesn’t care; any sort of reputation they had can be dragged through the mud for the sake of solace. They’ll have their jobs, they’ll still be able to save the world, heal it from the damage the Score has wrought. Closing the holes in their hearts will only make them stronger for the task.

Pain is easy to share, easy to keep, easy to hold onto and fall into. Solace is hard to find, hard to hold, hard to keep close.

But it’s worth it.


End file.
